


The playing of the merry organ

by LiveOakWithMoss



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A Refusal to Give a Straight Answer (hah) About the Lack of Named Women in Tolkien, Alcohol, Festive Angsty Emos, If Scrooge and the Grinch Decided to Get Drunk and Bone, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Made Up Elf Games, Nudity, Tolkien Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 08:10:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8971351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: Orodreth and Túrin celebrate the longest night of the year the best way they know how - by getting drunk, avoiding their feelings, and making bad choices.





	

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. Written for Tolkien Secret Santa 2016.
> 
> This is technically a seasonal story (hence the title) and it is fairly sexy (hence the title) but it is mostly me being really excited that my giftee (Artaresto) liked Túrin/Orodreth and me getting the chance to rock with these emos.
> 
> And also make up more Elf games.
> 
> 1\. While I have written Orodreth as a son of Finarfin in the past, in this version, in accordance with my recipient's preferences, he’s the son of Angrod.

There was snow falling lightly outside the great pillars of Nargothrond. Berries and boughs decked the thin ornamental bridge that spanned the main courtyard, and a troupe of singers had been retained to sing bright, uplifting tunes in the entryway. They were lovely and clear-voiced, but they kept making Orodreth jump every time he rounded the corner and saw twelve pairs of eyes on him, accompanied by the shrill ringing of the bells in their hands.

“I’d take the sounding of war horns over tinkling chimes any day,” he said under his breath, and then tried to look innocent when Finduilas narrowed her eyes at him. He resolved to be less of a spoilsport – there was more to celebrate these days than there had been in the past after all, he could hardly begrudge his daughter that – and held his tongue thereafter.

But apparently he was not the only one disturbed by the imposed seasonal merriment, judging by the expression on Túrin’s face as he strode into Orodreth’s quarters without knocking and with an unexpected burden in his arms. Orodreth considered complaining about the lack of etiquette – there was a bell outside his door with a pointedly worded note about announcing oneself – but he could hardly complain about the respite from ringing. Tiny golden bells had begun to haunt his dreams.

So instead he turned in his chair, looked Túrin up and down and said, “I did not expect Eru’s Forester in my room tonight.”

Growling, Túrin tossed down the prodigious armload of evergreen that had overtopped his arms and liberally sprinkled his hair with pine and pitch. “I am pretty sure it’s blasphemy to compare me to Lord Tauron." He discovered a clot of pine sap in his hair and swore liberally. "Damn the heavens, this is all your daughter’s fault.”

“Mind your tongue about the lady,” said Orodreth, but it was mostly for show. His fingers were pricked and bleeding from Finduilas instructing him to string roast corn and berries by means of a very sharp needle, and he was not feeling all that protective of his daughter’s good name. “What did she do to you?”

“She wanted to further decorate the courtyard bridge. She said it was the time of year to ‘bring in the green.’” 

That sounded familiar. She had also mentioned something about ‘light and merriment’ to Orodreth, but he supposed that she had taken one look at Túrin’s scowling face and known the addendum would be futile.

“Yes,” he said, deciding he was feeling tedious and didactic. “It is a tradition to remember that the growing times will return, however dark the days and deep the snows. Our people, who spend so much time beneath the earth, find the celebration meaningful in the times when the nights are long and seem unending. But I think it feels particularly resonant to the Princess this season, when other things thought dead and gone have returned unexpectedly, and brought with them renewed hope.”

“Yes. Gwindor is having trouble stringing the berries,” said Túrin. “What with the one hand and all.”

Orodreth thought it would be insensitive, not to mention cruel, to grin at the image, though it reminded him suddenly of a summer long ago and a certain lord of Himring trying to bait a hook. Sucking in his cheeks to hold back the smile, he said, “I did tell her that if she truly wanted merriment, she should encourage everyone to drink heavily.”

“Good idea,” said Túrin, kicking the branches out of the way. “Better use of time than decorating a bridge that’s totally impractical and useless anyway. I don’t even know why one would bother with a bridge to nowhere.”

“That’s why we call it _ornamental.”_

“Like I said, pointless. Where’s your stash?”

“Stash? You mean of liquor?” Orodreth tried to look dignified. “Well, I have stocked cellars and seasonal bottles with my vintner, but – ”

Túrin went to the wardrobe and pulled it open without ceremony. Pushing aside a mass of robes – most of which were Finrod’s and far too bright for Orodreth to pull off – he stooped and located a collection of bottles in the back by Orodreth’s slippers.

“Oh,” said Orodreth, aware that as King he should object to these kind of intrusions. _“That_ stash.”

“Should we get drunk without pretense,” said Túrin, “or should we invent one?”

 

They decided to compromise and play a game, but neither of them had the attention span for anything much. They tried to play Truth for a while, but it grew depressing and Orodreth had the feeling neither of them were abiding by the rules.

After they had both avoided each other’s eyes for the ‘Possess ye any regrets' round, they decided to switch tack and play Never Have I, Have Thee. It went better, briefly. 

“Never have I eaten snake, have thee?”

“Is that a euphemism?”

Orodreth choked on his mouthful of wine, but Túrin’s face held only inquisitiveness. “No,” he said. “It’s not. I mean, I didn’t mean it as such. I meant only that I know there are hunters who cook serpents on the spit but I have never tried – ”

“Oh,” said Túrin. “Yes, I have.”

“The serpent thing, or the euphemism?” Orodreth wanted to ask, but hadn’t had enough to drink yet. Instead he nodded sagely as Túrin took his gulp and wiped his mouth.

“Never have I lied to one in my service,” said Túrin, his grey eyes fixed on Orodreth’s with unnerving sharpness. “Have thee?”

Orodreth opened his mouth to say _no_ , then closed it again and brought the cup to his lips. Túrin looked faintly disgusted, and Orodreth drank for longer than was strictly necessary to prove he didn’t care. Then he tried to think of another ‘never’ to declare, casting his mind around despite the way it was already starting to swim.

“Never have I committed taboos of the flesh,” he said, and hiccuped.

“Like what?”

“Like…incest,” said Orodreth, managing not to slur the word, and wondered what was wrong with his inhibitions tonight.

Túrin frowned and his color deepened. “Seriously? You think that a question I would aye to?”

“You stay in Nargothrond a bit longer,” muttered Orodreth. “You’d be surprised. Anyway, is that a no?”

“Yes,” said Túrin, and as Orodreth’s eyebrows raised, clarified. “Yes, that is a no. Drink.”

Orodreth did, and when he suggested they switch to cards, Túrin did not protest. They struggled a little to find a game they both knew – Beleg had taught Túrin to play Mîn but the Doriathrim had different rules than Orodreth had learned from his Valinor-born uncles, and Orodreth had never played with multiple reverses. They finally lit on common ground in some of the games soldiers favored, though Orodreth found them less than stimulating.

“Gin,” he yawned, propping his chin on his palm.

Túrin looked over the table. “You haven’t put down anything from your hand!”

“I wasn’t declaring I did. I meant ‘pass it, I’m too sober for this.’”

Túrin handed over the bottle.

Two rounds later, Orodreth wasn’t smiling any more broadly – or at all – but his hair had a sprig of holly in it and he had no memory whence it had come. Túrin was still looking moody, but his throat and cheeks had a festive rosiness to them that Orodreth kept glancing at, then away.

Their conversation had started to get rambling and carelessly personal, in the way it did when two acquaintances had had too much to drink.

“You frown a lot for a merry king of the elves,” said Túrin, fumbling to draw a card. “You act like you have lost something.”

“I have,” said Orodreth, suddenly feeling angry. What was this Manling doing, doubting the right he had to his misery? “I have lost parents, an uncle and king, friends and cousins – ”

“You have a wife.” Túrin tilted the sentence up slightly at the end so that in certain lights it could be a question.

Some recognition flickered in Orodreth’s mind, some understanding.

“I assume,” Túrin added. “Because. The princess.”

“Mm,” said Orodreth. He was still watching Túrin, recognizing other signs now: the way he was leaning over the table, even though it exposed his cards to Orodreth. He marked the way their boots were brushing under the table, and the way Túrin’s eyelashes flickered against his cheek as he glanced down, and then up.

“Maybe you don’t,” said Túrin. “You Elves are very un-forthcoming with…the names of your women.”

Orodreth tried to think of a good defense for this, but found none. He changed the subject instead. “If you find me dour,” he said, not adding that it was rich for Túrin to accuse anyone of being so, “it is only because my burden is not light. I never expected to be king, you see. I thought Finrod…”

“Would not leave,” said Túrin. “Would not die. Yes. It is dangerous to assume such things.”

“He has left…large shoes to fill,” said Orodreth, and was mortified at the thickness in his voice. He drank more gin to clear his throat. “I often ask myself, were he still here, what he would do. And the answers plague me.”

“You do pretty well,” said Túrin, dragging his finger through some spilled wine and then putting the finger between his lips to lick it, apparently unaware that he was doing anything provocative. He looked up, and Orodreth noticed again how long his eyelashes were and how soft his stained lips. “But it is your turn. Go.”

“I don’t know what to play,” said Orodreth, who had forgotten what cards he even held.

“Just ask yourself what Finrod would do,” said Túrin, a mocking note in his voice.

When Orodreth laid down his cards and leaned forward to kiss him, it was in equal parts to shut him up and an answer.

 

* * *

 

Túrin walked his fingers up Orodreth’s bare chest. In another it would have been a coquettish, playful gesture, but before Túrin’s flickering gaze it was faintly disturbing, like having a pale spider creep over his skin. Orodreth shifted against the blankets and pulled Túrin close to spite his instinct to recoil, halting the spider’s progression by embracing him. Túrin made a small noise and stilled his hand, turning his face to Orodreth’s shoulder instead. Orodreth looked down at his dark head and bare shoulders, where the sun-browned skin of his neck turned pale along the line of his collar. There was something very vulnerable about the sight, and he felt a surge of guilt at his own audacity for taking this young and fragile Man into his bed. (Had Beleg ever felt the same? Orodreth pushed both the suspicion, and the odd jealousy it inspired, away.)

Orodreth yawned. Fragile or not, Túrin had worked him well and he was now feeling a bone-deep satiation that couldn’t be blamed on any drink. There was something sharp beneath him in addition to his own rucked up shirt and Orodreth moved until he was free of it. It turned out to be the holly from his hair, a discovery which somehow made him more embarrassed than his own nudity or the damp sheets. He flicked the holly away, causing the blankets to slip, and he grabbed them so as not to re-expose himself.

Túrin did not care about exposure. He stretched and caught the holly, his lean legs pushing against Orodreth’s, his nakedness all the more remarkable for its alien place in Orodreth’s bed. He rolled and nuzzled against Orodreth as if unconscious of the intimacy of the gesture. “I had another idea,” he mumbled, his mouth pressed to Orodreth’s breast. He twiddled the holly against Orodreth’s stomach, and then let it drop. “Another thing we could play, but I have to invent it first.”

Orodreth dragged his fingers through Túrin’s hair and got stuck, something he’d never had happen with an Elven partner. “Oh?”

“It’s a new card game,” Túrin said, his breath pricking goose bumps on Orodreth’s skin. “Better than Gin.”

“Nothing’s better than gin.” Orodreth closed his eyes, thinking of it. The room was spinning around him less than it had been, and he was very conscious of the stickiness between his thighs as Túrin’s mouth closed around his nipple. Túrin played with it for a moment against his tongue and then pulled back, and the pleasure that sparked in Orodreth faded back into lazy contentment.

Perhaps the season would be light and merry after all – he resolved to be more helpful to Finduilas.

Perhaps Túrin could help.

“I’ve still got to work out the details,” said Túrin, his voice drowsy.

“Do you?” Orodreth wanted to kiss him again, and did.

“Yes. I have to figure out the rules, but I think I’ll call it…” The holly was scratching between their stomachs and Túrin twitched it away. “ ‘Bridge.’ ”

“Bridge,” murmured Orodreth. “Bridge… Mmm. _Hn."_

Túrin’s leg slid between his thighs.

"I like it.”

**Author's Note:**

> 2\. "Mîn" is, of course, Uno.


End file.
